


Reverse Psychology

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-27
Updated: 2007-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: For spn_vday. My prompt was: Dean and Sam in Harvelle's Road House. After hours. Slowdancing to 80s rock ballads.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Reverse Psychology  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating; Adult  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: For [ ](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_vday/profile)[**spn_vday**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_vday/). My prompt was: Dean and Sam in Harvelle's Road House. After hours. Slowdancing to 80s rock ballads. And then comes the buttfucking on the floor. :D  
Notes: This is for [ ](http://immoralilly.livejournal.com/profile)[**immoralilly**](http://immoralilly.livejournal.com/) and [ ](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/profile)[](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/)**_doodle** , for the panties and the roses on my userinfo page. THANK YOU. You both are incredibly awesome. *kisses y'all all up*  
  
  
  
When you get right down to it, the best way to make Dean hate the whole concept of falling in love would definitely be to make a whole fucking holiday about it.  
  
Dean's convinced that that's exactly why Valentine's Day exists: to piss him off. Hell, maybe the damn holiday doesn't even exist. Maybe there's a curse to make everyone _think_ it exists, but in reality it's just some asshole magic-worker fucking with Dean.  
  
"You're overreacting," Sam tells him, and Dean wonders what kind of hell exists for people who commit brother-cide on Valentine's Day.  
  
"I am fucking not," he says, hitting the dashboard for emphasis - and then wincing and petting her, because beating up on his baby just plain _wrong._ "Valentine's Day is the worst motherfucking holiday in the history of bad fucking holidays and I cannot fucking _believe_ you fucking want to celebrate it."  
  
"Every time you say 'fuck', I just want you more," Sam says, and the dweeb actually flutters his eyelashes.  
  
Lame, lame, and also? Lame.  
  
"Don't even fucking try it, Sammy," Dean says, stepping on the gas.  
  
And then Sam, the little bitch, puts a hand on his thigh, rubbing up and down. "There you go again," Sam says, voice low and sounding almost angry like it does when they're on a job.  
  
Fuck him for knowing what turns Dean on - but Dean doesn't say it aloud this time.  
  
"What's so bad about a day dedicated to love, anyway?" Sam asks, that hand creeping up until it's resting in the crease in Dean's jeans, between his hipbone and his leg.  
  
"Too many mushy puppy-love shitholes running around," Dean answers, gritting his teeth and doing his damndest to ignore the finger sneaking up and over, tracing his stomach and moving down. If he says anything Sam'll win, and Sam, the little bastard, knows it.   
  
"But what about true love, the kind that lasts a person's whole life? Shouldn't people celebrate that?"  
  
He rolls his eyes, because he knows exactly who Sam's talking about. "Dude, please don't tell me you believe in that shit," he says.  
  
"I love you, Dean," is Sam's only response: a soft, growly murmer that distracts him to the point of almost running off the road.  
  
"Fucking bastard," he says, and Sam laughs.  
  
||  
  
The other problem with Valentine's Day is that it's _sneaky._  
  
He thinks, after awhile, that Sam's forgotten it. Hell, it's been a week, and now that the 14th has finally rolled around they're in the middle of a hunt. But then they abruptly solve the problem and waste the succubus, and then it's 3 AM on, technically, the day after Valentine’s, and Sam's making Dean drink a fucking _pink margarita_ in the Roadhouse.  
  
Dean really has no goddamned clue how he got here.  
  
"No," he says when Sam looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes.  
  
"But -"  
  
"No, dude."  
  
And then Sam's eyes get all wide and sad and, shit, Dean totally hates him for it but he drinks the nasty fucking girly drink anyway, because it's Sam and, okay, he's totally pathetically in love.  
  
Whatever.  
  
"I hate you," he says when the thing burns down his throat, more painful than the nastiest moonshine he's ever stolen.  
  
"Love you too," Sam says, and like it's a signal, the jukebox turns on.  
  
_Watching every motion  
In my foolish lover's game_  
  
Dean can pretty much feel the horror creeping up his spine. "No," he says. "Dude. _No._ "  
  
_On this endless ocean  
Finally lovers know no shame_  
  
Sam's eyes stray to the middle of the room, where hours ago there had been dancing and partying. The dance floor's still there, chairs pushed aside, pink crepe hanging from the ceiling.  
  
"I will _kill you,_ " Dean says. “It’s not even the good version!”  
  
_Turning and returning  
To some secret place inside_  
  
"Please?" Sam says, and the threat behind it is, "Or I'll give up sex for Lent."  
  
"You're not even Catholic!"  
  
_Watching in slow motion  
As you turn around and say  
My love_  
  
Sam pulls Dean out on the dance floor, twirling him and dipping him till Dean almost falls over.  
  
"Happy Valentine's Day," he whispers in Dean's ear, and Dean lets himself lean into Sam.  
  
_Take my breath away..._  
  
And they kiss, swaying together on the dance floor, emotions flickering between them like firelight.  
  
||  
  
"Dean?"  
  
"Snarglerad."  
  
"Dean!"  
  
"Wha!"  
  
Dean jerks awake, sitting up and grabbing for an invisible knife under a pillow that's not there, because he was lying on the Roadhouse's bar; there's either a puddle of drool or (way more likely, Dean tells himself) precipitation from a glass right next to him.  
  
"Dude." Sam's looking at him with that annoying Sammy amused expression. Dean considers punching it off his face, but...  
  
Nah. Too pretty.  
  
"You were humming in your sleep," Sam says. "What the hell were you dreaming about?"  
  
It comes back in a sickening rush of syrupy sweetness. Dean stops himself from banging his head on the bar a couple thousand times by saying, "Uh, Jessica Simpson."  
  
Sam blinks. "...right, then. That’s nice."  
  
And then, because Dean's a moron, he says desperately, "Hey, wanna dance?"  
  
The room is empty and quiet. Sam looks at Dean like Dean's lost his mind, which probably isn't all that far from the truth.  
  
"Or fuck?" Dean says hopefully.  
  
Sam doesn't even give him time to think, just grabs his wrist and pulls off the stool. Dean stumbles down, falling - but of course Sam catches him, scooping up Dean's feet till he's being held like a virgin bride from some old movie, which doesn't disturb him as much as it should since the next second Sam's lowering him to the ground and tearing his clothes off, kissing him for all he's worth.  
  
Usually Sam's the annoying romantic one, but this time all Dean's getting is that Sam wants to fuck, now; kind of funny, considering that it's (sort of) Valentine's Day and all. But hey, Dean's always up for raw, dirty sex, so he grinds up against Sam and whispers in his ear, "Gonna fuck you blind, little brother."  
  
But Sam, instead of moaning and closing his eyes, grins. "No, Dean," he says. "I'm going to fuck you."  
  
And before Dean can protest he's being turned over and Sam's straddling his hips, pulling his pants off and leaving hot wet kisses on his shoulder blades, his neck, his spine. And this is - hot, yeah, but it's also kind of worrying.  
  
"Uh, Sam?" he asks, and wiggles his ass when Sam doesn't respond. "Hey, Ginormatron. You back there?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"It's Valentine's Day, dude."  
  
A finger tracing the spot on his lower back where he almost got a tattoo declaring his love for Carrie Bradshaw and Dean writhes, gasps.  
  
"So?"  
  
" _So,_ " Dean says, huffing out a breath of air when Sam drags his tongue right down Dean's spine, hands splayed over Dean's sides, "thought you'd be more, you know. Whoop-dee-do, chocolates and flowers."  
  
And then Sam proves he's pure demonic evil: he stops moving. "What?" he says innocently. "I'm just trying to make you happy. Wouldn't you rather be fucked into the floorboards?"  
  
"Sounds nice, but -"  
  
"Or," Sam says, his voice a low near-purr, "do you want me to touch every inch of you? Kiss you till you're whimpering like a girl? Fuck you gently while you tell me you love me?"  
  
It's been a long year. Dean takes a deep breath and says, "Yeah. But you'd better say you love me back, bitch."  
  
Sam laughs and tugs Dean until he rolls back over, until their eyes lock together like...things that lock. Dean can't think of anything because Sam's managed to take his own clothes off too and he’s moving over Dean, thrusting against him, and fuck, but his baby brother's huge. And not just his cock, either.  
  
"Don't know when you grew up so much," he grits out, threading fingers through Sam's hair, "but you know - I really don't mind."  
  
Sam's laughter is open and happy like it hasn't been since Dean would make him demon-shaped pancakes and they’d watch Tom do his best to catch Jerry on a motel TV. "That's good, since I can't change it," he says, and moves down.  
  
The kiss is so sweet that Dean can almost taste the syrup. He opens his mouth wider, kisses Sam deeper, because yeah: he needs this. He needs it like he needs air and water and Sam in the passenger seat.  
  
"Fuckin' moron," he says, hands coming down to cup Sam's ass. "Don't know how - four _years,_ man."  
  
"I thought about you," Sam says. "Dreamed. Every day, but then on Valentine's Day I'd. I."  
  
He shudders and Dean kisses him again, hard, because this is Sam and, really, that pretty much covers all the reasons. "Fucked a girl year before last," he mutters, and grins when Sam stiffens. "Floppy brown hair, pre-law major from Northwestern. Kicked me out when I called her Sam."  
  
They stutter-skid over the floor when Sam's hips jerk. Sam draws in a shaky breath.  
  
"We're really doing this, aren't we?" he asks, and Dean knows he doesn't just mean the sex.  
  
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, we are."  
  
And he pushes gently until Sam rolls over, lying back on the floor and putting his hands behind his head. The cocky grin on his face is such a change from his usual range of Super Sensitive Boy looks that Dean feels like his stomach's dropping to his feet.  
  
"Fuck," he says, and splays his hands on Sam's chest, pushing him down. His fingers skate up to find Sam's nipples - gentle twist and Sam's eyes are rolling back in his head, the grin slipping away in favor of clenched teeth, his neck muscles tensing in a look that just plain never gets old.  
  
"So gorgeous, Sam," he says, licking and kissing his way down. "I look at you, man, I see...fuck. _Everything._ "  
  
"God," Sam says, hands moving, sliding down his own body and cupping Dean's face. "Dean. Need - you. Up here."  
  
Dean reaches down and circles a hand around Sam's dick, tugging once, twice, before moving back up and kissing Sam softly.   
  
"Lube," he says when they break apart. Sam slips the tube into Dean's fingers and Dean smirks. "Nah, man, for me."  
  
Sam raises his eyebrows, eyes intent on Dean's face, until Dean...gets it.  
  
"Um," he says, face feeling hot. Maybe he's getting a fever. He sure as hell isn't blushing.  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
The smug look is back on Sam's face, but he's watching Dean with the same kind of concentration as when he's mixing explosions from hospital supplies. And he wants Dean to...  
  
"Fuck," Dean says, and sits back, opening the tube of lube.  
  
"Pretty much," Sam says, running a hand over Dean's shoulder and down his side. "Come on now, slick yourself up for me."  
  
He's seen pornos with better dialogue than that, but Dean's shuddering anyway. If he'd known that Sammy gets this bossy when Dean lets him be a totally gooey wuss he'd've done it a long time ago.  
  
The lube is cold on his fingers but he moves anyway, arching his back enough so that he can reach behind. Push in slick, scissored fingers, and Sam reaches out and wraps a hand around Dean's dick. He's surprised enough that he almost topples over - would topple over, if it wasn't for Sam's hand splayed at his side.  
  
"Idiot," Sam says, laughing softly.  
  
"Shut the fuck up," Dean grumbles, then decides to be proactive about it, scooting up until he can rub his ass against Sam's cock.  
  
" _Ah_ \- God," Sam gasps, head thunking against the wooden floorboards.  
  
"Fuck me," Dean orders.  
  
Sam's hands come to Dean's hips, fingers splaying over them as he moves Dean back, down. Dean's tempted to whack Sam's hands away, tell him that he can fuck Sam's dick without Sam's half, thankyouverymuch, but - well. Sam's hands are _huge_ , and the calluses are hitting spots Dean didn't even know existed, and his whole body feels like it's about to explode in a mass of radioactive mush. So, yeah, he's not complaining.  
  
And then Sam's _there_ , stretching and slipping in, and it's weird and trippy like that time he got shot in the shoulder by the possessed deer except really, really not. He can feel parts of him shake, like he's going crazy, and he thinks maybe this is what people mean by making love.  
  
"Sammy," he says, sounding broken - and he can't even bring himself to care.  
  
"Fuck yourself, Dean," Sam says quietly. “Fuck yourself on me.”  
  
Dean suddenly focuses, narrowing in on Sam. His mouth is all twisted up like he's trying to solve some really hard math problem, and his hips are moving in tiny uneven thrusts, and his hands are running up and down Dean's body and they're _shaking._  
  
Dean smirks. Hell, yeah.  
  
"Love you, baby brother," he says, tightening around Sam. Sam's hips thrust hard, jolting them both. "Love your cock in my ass. Love the way you're practically a girl when it comes to fucking me." Up, down, hard motions that will leave him bruised and hurting tomorrow, cold wood of the Roadhouse floor under his feet. "Love - fuck. You. Always…" The world's falling apart now, degenerating into fasterhardercloser _there_ , Sam hitting that spot, Sam wrapping one of those too-big hands around his dick and just pulling, pushing, both of them rocking back and forth and Sam struggling to sit up so that they can kiss, wet and messy, mouths breaking apart and heads dropping down to each other's shoulders.  
  
"Dean," Sam says, and his voice is ragged. "Missed you -"  
  
"'m here," Dean says, and kisses Sam's shoulder. "I've got you."  
  
And then Sam's hips stutter and stop and Dean feels warmth flooding him. "Oh God ohgodohgod, Dean, fuck," Sam groans, clutching Dean's biceps hard enough to leave bruise marks. " _Fuck._ "  
  
"Dirty mouth you got there," Dean's going to say, but then Sam scrapes a rough thumb over the head of Dean's dick and wraps his mouth around the finger Dean didn’t realize he raised, sucking and licking and biting hard enough to hurt and that's it, Dean's gone, babbling shit he won't want to think about tomorrow as he comes all over Sam's belly.  
  
When the syrupy feeling in the pit of his stomach finally dies down (or at least is manageable enough that he can just pull Sam a little closer and snuggle instead of stand on the rooftop and declare his love for everyone to hear), he says, "Um. We don't talk about this. Ever."  
  
Sam smirks against Dean's temple. "Fine by me."  
  
"I mean. Uh. Dude, I always thought you were the girl."  
  
"You mean you don't want hardcore fucking on Valentine's Day?" Sam says innocently, and it clicks.  
  
"You _son of a bitch._ "  
  
"Heh."  
  
"You tricked me!" And he did, with those stupid puppy-dog eyes and the dirty sex wanting and...Dean feels soiled. He needs a _bath_ , Christ. "You did this on purpose!"  
  
Now Sam's dotting kisses along Dean's cheek, still smirking fit to beat the stupid, girly band, and Dean is going to kill him so, _so_ much. "But it worked," Sam says in an unbelievably goofy voice. "Happy Valentine's Day."  
  
Dean does the only thing he can think of: he grabs huge handfuls of Sam's freakishly soft floppy hair and yanks him forward, kissing him as hard and dirty as he can, biting his lower lip and sucking on his tongue.  
  
"Love you, moron," he says when they finally stop for air, wrapping arms and legs around Sam and pulling him in even closer, until they’re warm and perfect, skin-to-skin.  
  
Sam smiles, and Dean sees the sun. "Love you, too."


End file.
